I'm onto you, you lesbian.

Foot Fetish keeps standing at my desk while I'm mindlessly opening and shuffling thousands of emails that protest the death penalty into various folders (the you're a barbarian folder, the I'm praying for your soul folder, the are you retarded or something? folder, etc.) and asking me if I have a "blog" online that he can read. I look over at him and he's leafing through my journal that I would be writing in were I not busy reading about what a barbaric, godless, retard I am. I snatch it from him and tell him for the thousandth time that yes, I have multiple "blogs" but that he would have to find them himself.

"Give me a hint," he whined, "are they topical?"

I turned my attention back to the lethal emails and muttered thanks to the heavens for not having slept with someone who uses the word topical.

"No, they're not. They're all me, me, me, all the time."

He pesters me a few more minutes before giving up and returning to his workstation. I'm Onto You, You Lesbian walks up and motions toward Foot Fetish. "You doing that guy yet?" When I said no, he shook his head and told me he was going to Mexico on vacation next week, and that he'd bring me back pictures of topless women on the nude beaches.